Not What it Seems by Nicky James

One

Cyrus

The minute I laid eyes on him, I knew it was all a lie.

I was on one of those reality shows, wasn’t I? This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. It was a joke.

Muscles seizing, brain whirring, I rocked on my feet, deciding if I should walk through the door or turn around and leave. Ethically, I should have expressed my regrets to Molly Steinway, the president of the board of directors, and high-tailed it to my car without looking back, but that wasn’t what I did.

I was compromised even as I stared at the profile of the man standing at the window. Why I chose to move forward and not backward was a question I would ponder for years to come.

The moment of decision came when the man I’d known only as Craig—who was not Craig according to the file in my hand—turned around and looked me in the eye.

Twenty years studying the brain and dissecting mental health to its bare bones gave me an inkling a lot of doctors didn’t have. I’d worked with some of the most severe cases in the country, and I’d seen the brutal effects of extreme psychosis firsthand. I’d written papers and journals, taught classes and gave seminars. Most professionals would say my inkling was bogus and unfounded. From a medical standpoint, they weren’t wrong. Diagnosing mental health conditions required a complex and lengthy assessment that was not without flaws. However, in all my years seeing patients, I firmly believed the eyes were portals to the soul. They told the raw truth of humanity.

They didn’t lie.

Couldn’t.

Mental health might be a disease of the brain, but there were tells, little clues that tipped me off in a first meeting, which was how I knew the minute I stepped into the room with River Jenkins—not Craig—at New Horizon Psychiatric Institute that I was dealing with an interesting case of malingering.

It might have had something to do with the imperceptible twitch at the corner of his lips upon seeing me or the fact that I’d shared a bed with him for three blissful nights over two months ago. Either way, alarm bells rang and clanged inside my head, warning me to proceed with caution.

New Horizon had called me for a reason, and I would do my job to the best of my ability—despite knowing the patient. A team of doctors and police were waiting for a second opinion. The charges against River Jenkins were steep, and with a diagnosis of criminal insanity, he’d spend his sentence in a cushy joint like New Horizon rather than warming a cell. There were a lot of conflicting opinions floating around about his case, and no one knew for certain if River should be treated as a patient or a criminal.

He was a liar, that much I knew for sure.

And no matter how much I wanted to base my opinion on the few intimate nights we’d shared, I had to forget they existed. Remain impartial. Was my decision to stay and evaluate him based somewhere in revenge? Did I want to be the one to send him to prison? I pondered that for a moment but dismissed it just as quickly.

I was definitely compromised.

Walk out. Leave. Go home. You’re breaking the rules.

I remained.

Initial impressions aside, my job was to assess the patient, review his file, and determine a diagnosis—if one existed—by the end of the month, which, in itself, was ridiculous. There was no convincing the police that a proper diagnosis for something as complex as what they suggested took months. They wanted—needed—answers now.

It was Monday, July fifth.

* * *

New Horizon was a three-story secure facility located on the outskirts of St. Thomas, Ontario. The 140-bed institute treated people who were deemed not criminally responsible for crimes or unfit to stand trial due to any number of mental health disorders. They were running way under-capacity, and the city was threatening to close her doors.

It had taken a song and dance to get to the west wing of the second floor. The building was locked down. After my initial meeting with New Horizon’s team of medical professionals—and halting their attempt to give me a rundown of the patient’s symptoms—I’d requested to be shown to the interview room to meet River Jenkins and evaluate him without bias.

At that point, he was still River Jenkins, a stranger.

Everything about the institution was bland and flat. Clinical and sterile. Off whites and low-key shades of brown, yellow, and baby-blue constituted a designer’s poor attempt at giving the atmosphere an unthreatening vibe. It failed, coming across as bleak and plaintive. Depressing. The walls and peeling paint felt like they could suck the life out of a person in a matter of minutes. The atmosphere was not conducive to helping those with any type of severe mental health disorder. In fact, it was a wonder the nurses hadn’t developed depression themselves, spending so many hours, days, and weeks locked inside.

Wherever the petition was to have the building condemned, I wanted my name on it. These people needed to be moved someplace warmer and less oppressive.

The heels of my dress shoes clicked on the laminate tiling, echoing back off the unadorned walls as I headed in what I hoped was the right direction. Every hallway looked the same: long and bare, lined with secure doors on either side and little else. The polish had been scrubbed right off the floor and had left it dull and scuffed from years of traffic. But it was spotless.

Lemon-scented industrial cleaner mixed with the smells of bacon and fried eggs that drifted down the hall from the dining room. I’d missed the New Horizon breakfast rush by thirty minutes, and my stomach growled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten since last night’s dinner at the fast-food joint I’d stopped at along the highway.

After a lengthy phone call—my routine morning check-in with my aging parents—I’d only had time to choke down a burnt cup of hotel coffee before racing off for my nine o’clock appointment with the board of directors and doctors. The brew gurgled and curdled in my empty belly. I should have grabbed one of their muffins. Knowing how my dad liked to chat, I should have woken ten minutes earlier so I would have had time to hit a Tim Hortons or Starbucks on my way to the institute. A decent cup of coffee with a breakfast sandwich was nothing more than a dream now.

Shoulda, coulda, woulda but didn’t. I’d been too focused on what the day would bring and the perplexing patient I was supposed to meet whose future rode on my diagnosis.

God, if only I’d known the disaster I was walking into.

The human brain was a curious thing. It had always fascinated me—in others and also in myself. Carrying around so much knowledge was almost cruel and had led to more instances of self-recrimination than I cared to admit. If I wasn’t wondering what was going on in other peoples’ brains, I was worried about what was going on in my own and how every poor life choice had landed me where I was—at least when it came to my failing love life.

I stopped outside room 2133 where I’d been directed to meet with twenty-eight-year-old River Jenkins. The brown file folder tucked under my arm contained an overview of the police report, his intake forms, and medical information, which I’d glimpsed long enough to ascertain only a skeletal breakdown of what I was dealing with—a shaky diagnosis of schizophrenia and three charges of murder.

I smoothed a hand down my coral-colored paisley tie and powder-blue dress shirt before mussing my ash-brown curls, finger combing them into some semblance of professional. I could spend an hour in front of a mirror with every product my hairdresser recommended, and it all looked the same in the end. More than once, I’d considered shaving it off, especially since the silver at my temples showed more and more each year. But, due to an odd-shaped head—thank you, Father—I suffered with the unmanageable curls—thank you, Mother.

Since New Horizon was a secure facility, there were cameras all over and mechanical locks on most doors located outside the two wards, which required a key card to access them. I’d been given a temporary pass and used it on the reader built into the door. It clicked, and the light turned from red to green.

The interview room was located outside the west wing’s second-floor ward. It was more of a lounge with a threadbare couch I imagined had once been a muted cream color but was now a dingy gray. There were two matching chairs, a few small tables—varnish worn off, chipped corners and long scratches from years of being banged around—and a big, grated window that offered a view of the yard—nothing more than sunburnt brown grass and weeds all the way to the far fence, despite the lush early summer growth present through the rest of the city. Lawn maintenance was not high on New Horizon’s list of priorities.

In a lot of ways, the facility resembled a prison. The difference came in the sheer number of medical professionals versus security officers—of which there were few.

River Jenkins was standing at the window when I entered, angled in such a way I viewed him in profile. My heart skittered at the familiar slope and breadth of his shoulders, at his auburn-colored hair. He didn’t respond or acknowledge my appearance at first, so it gave me a minute to assess him head to toe.

Assess the ethical dilemma of walking into a room with a patient I knew intimately.

River was tall, six feet if an inch or two more. He wore his hair slightly long, artfully messy, a style that was far hipper than anything I could pull off. Although he wasn’t lanky, I couldn’t call him built either. Toned, perhaps? Fit?

Like the first time I’d laid eyes on him over two months ago, it struck me how much he resembled my asshole ex. Like a younger version of Grant. Head-turningly gorgeous. I was convinced that was why I’d been drawn to him in the first place that night at the bar. I shamefully had a type, and that type was staring out the window, refusing to acknowledge me.

It had taken me a solid month to rid myself of thoughts of Craig—not Craig. River, apparently—and several long, sleepless nights of self-reproach before I’d managed to move on and forgive myself for foolishly pretending a random man I’d met at a bar was someone special.

All for naught, it seemed.

How well did I know him anyhow?

Was it possible I’d slept with a cold-blooded killer?

I rattled my head, ordering my thoughts.

I should leave. Under no circumstances was I fit to assess this man. I was personally involved. That was a huge no-no.

But then what? What did I tell Molly?

Sorry, Molly, I slept with the man you want me to evaluate. Yes, he fucked me so good, I couldn’t walk properly for a week, so it wouldn’t be appropriate. I should go.

I didn’t need that taint on my reputation. My poor life choices were no one’s business but my own.

I could do this. I could remain impartial and detached. I could pretend we’d never met.

River wore track pants and a plain white T-shirt, both articles of clothing too small for his frame. I wondered if they were given to him on admittance. They didn’t look like something he would wear on purpose.

His broad shoulders stretched the thin material across his back, emphasizing his trapezius muscles. His arms were toned and covered with dark hair along his forearms. His biceps and triceps strained his shirt sleeves, pinching under his pits. The hem of the T-shirt was unraveling, loose threads dangling. His arms were crossed over his chest but not in a defensive or high-anxiety way like I’d seen in some patients who were doing all they could to hold themselves together. The pose was more relaxed. Contemplative. His mind was active but in a controlled way.

Like the player you are, you asshole.

Yep, definitely compromised.

The light-gray track pants hugged his solid thighs and a tight round ass, which I tried not to linger on—and failed. I’d seen that ass in the flesh, and it was a gift from the gods. I’d felt the muscles in those amazing glutes tighten as I’d dug my fingers into them, urging him to fuck me harder and deeper, moaning like the little slut I was.

Tiny beads of perspiration dampened my temples at the memory, and my throat dried.

The elastic cuffs of the track pants sat two inches above his ankles, showing off the wiry hair on his legs. His feet were bare, stuffed inside red Nike flip-flops, and again, I made an effort not to stare at them.

River had nice feet.

I liked feet. Sue me.

Grant, my ex, had always thought it was weird and unnatural. But Grant had rarely had a single nice thing to say about me, so I dismissed his nagging voice calling me a foot fetish freak and pried my eyes away from River’s long toes as I studied his profile once again.

He was young and attractive, but his looks were less refined than Grant’s. River—not Mr. You-Can-Call-Me-Craig—had a rougher edge, and it tickled something in my low belly. It would figure. The universe had a sick sense of humor, putting me in this situation. Why was I always attracted to the lying assholes? No matter how many times I psychoanalyzed myself, no matter how meticulously I broke down and examined my seemingly wonderful childhood, there was no answer.

Of all people, how had I wound up here?

I shoved my patient’s good looks aside, forcing myself to focus.

The last thing I needed was to be distracted.

It wasn’t too late to walk out.

I should walk out.

Just go.

Right now.

River still hadn’t acknowledged me. I could make excuses. I could be the liar for a change and remove myself from the whole situation before it got messy.

But my feet remained planted.

I needed to do some serious self-analysis later. Something was definitely wrong with me.

On the far side of the room was a plastic card table and a couple of folding chairs. I crossed toward it, keeping an eye on thepatient as I tossed the brown folder on top and helped myself to a seat.

Then I waited.

I liked to think of myself as a professional—present decision and situation notwithstanding. I’d been working in the field for just over twenty years. My job was my life. I had no husband, no boyfriend since I’d stormed out on Grant two years ago, and two aging parents who wouldn’t always be around. My future looked bleak. Not that I wasn’t interested in dating or starting my own family, but my one and only attempt to loosen up and join the dating scene had ended with me being ghosted by the man at the window after a blissful weekend together.

I might have felt a touch jaded after that. Unreasonably hurt.

The reality was, Dr. Cyrus Irvine, forty-five, was a failure in everyday social situations and didn’t know how to be anything but a doctor. I couldn’t turn off the analytical part of my brain to save my life, and most people didn’t want to be psychoanalyzed outside a shrink’s office.

And I was insecure.

And clingy.

To be fair, I was a whole list of unattractive qualities.

No wonder River had ghosted me.

The truth was, I was lonely and pathetic, which led to me staring at River’s ass again as I recalled every vivid detail of those three nights—and two days—we’d shared. There had been a lot of sex, but it was the stuff in between that had fooled me. Breakfast in his bed. Lounging naked on his couch as we’d watched bad TV.

I was a little ashamed but not enough to stop. His ass was something to behold, and only a blind or a dead man with any interest in the male form could have ignored it.

I feigned flipping through his file in case he could make out my reflection in the window or in case the cameras were being monitored despite patient-doctor confidentiality. Sneaking a glance was one thing, but I wasn’t dumb enough to get caught.

When I was convinced the silence between us would extend throughout the entire morning, River sighed and turned away from the window.

And that was the moment I saw the real River Jenkins for the first time. Not his physical presence. Not his broad chest and stylish hair. Not his firm thighs—and goddamn the memorable bulge straining the front of his track pants—or his bare feet in Nike flip-flops. It was the eyes. His whiskey-warm eyes. When he turned, that was the moment I witnessed the soul of the man staring back at me. He wasn’t Player Craig from the bar. He was someone else entirely. Someone I didn’t know.

River’s eyes were sharp, alert, and inquisitive, studying me as intently as I studied him. Liquid pools of warm honey I’d spent three nights drowning in a little over two months ago.

His lips twitched, but he fought hard to maintain control. “Well, shit,” he muttered. “What are the fucking chances?”

In that moment, I knew two things for fact.

One, River Jenkins and everything about his preliminary diagnosis was a lie.

And two, despite morals and ethics and professional code, I wasn’t going anywhere.

I was a smart man, and I would get to the bottom of this.

“Good morning… River.” There was no hiding the hard edge in my voice.

“Good morning… Dr. Irvine.” His voice was deep and smooth if not a tad mocking, and it rumbled under my skin.

I took a second, watching, thinking, appraising.

Psychology wasn’t about a person’s soul, it was about a person’s brain, and River’s was astute and as curious as mine. He remained by the window, watchful and vigilant. What was he thinking?

As far as patients went, River was the type who did as much analyzing as the doctor taking notes. Something was up, and I got the feeling if I didn’t tread carefully, I’d wind up lured into a trap.

As far as anyone was concerned, we were strangers. I didn’t know him, hence, I shouldn’t prejudge him.

I rose and extended a hand, keeping a wary eye on my patient as I pulled up a professional smile. “A pleasure to meet you… River. Please, call me Cyrus. No need for formalities.”

He broke eye contact and stared at my hand a moment before unfurling his arms and shaking. His grip was firm and confident, his palm sweaty. “Yeah, all right then.”

“Please. Sit.” I gestured at the chair across from me.

Another long moment of consideration passed before River dragged the chair out, the legs scraping against the linoleum tiles, and got comfortable. He folded his hands together on the tabletop, tapping his thumbs as he stared at the brown folder. The whole while, the cogs inside his brain whirred. River was supposed to be unaware of my purpose. He’d been told he was getting shifted to a new doctor and nothing more.

“How are you doing today, River?” I dragged the folder off the table and set it on my lap out of his line of sight.

While he decided whether he felt like answering, I took a second to find the page where his medications were listed. Risperidone. Nothing else. A common drug choice. In my opinion, it was premature to introduce any medication, but I wasn’t about to judge another doctor’s decision until I had more facts. At least it was just the one drug. Any more would make it difficult to determine what was or wasn’t working or what needed to be adjusted.

Risperidone was an atypical antipsychotic. I skimmed the form, noting the prescribed dose and the date the drug had been introduced. Then I peeked at the patient from under my lashes. He still hadn’t answered me.

As though somehow knowing what I was reading, River smothered a yawn and leaned back in his chair, adopting a more relaxed, less alert posture. His eyes didn’t water with the yawn, and the whole gesture felt… dramatic. Posed.

“I’m pretty tired lately. They make us get up for breakfast every day at the ass-crack of dawn, but all I want to do is sleep. The shit they’re giving me is helping the old noggin, but it’s kicking my ass.”

“I see.”

I closed the folder and set it aside. Mirroring River, I leaned back in my seat and crossed my arms, noting every minor detail of the man across from me, trying to figure out how it all fit together. Why the act? What had he done? How had he wound up in a psychiatric hospital of all places?

“Do you know why I’m here, River?”

His gaze flicked from my face to a place over my shoulder, and he stared into space a moment, dazed, lips parted, before looking back. A stitch appeared between his brows before vanishing. I noted all of it.

“They told me they had a new doctor on the team, and they were shuffling me off to him. To you.” He shrugged. “Lucky me, I guess.”

“Lucky you.” I nodded. “That’s correct.”

Typically, a patient wasn’t informed when there were suspicions surrounding their diagnosis. It could affect the process of determining whether they were truly mentally ill or not. I had a feeling River knew exactly why I was there—how could he not with three murders hanging over his head. The case was temporarily stalled because of the preliminary diagnosis.

It wasn’t that the doctors who’d previously evaluated River weren’t good at their jobs, but most professionals in the field were hard-pressed to diagnose malingering for fear of being sued. Denying a patient care or stigmatizing them could result in a much greater problem and could potentially put the health care provider at more risk than was necessary. Assault toward a doctor wasn’t unheard of, especially if the patient’s reason for faking their condition was meant to keep them from being charged with a devastating crime.

Like three murders.

It was why a second opinion was vital.

When it came to psychosis and schizophrenia, I was the man they called. It was my specialty.

“I thought we could spend the next few days getting to know each other better. It would help me get a firmer grasp on who you are”—I wanted to laugh—“and the kind of care you require. I have your initial diagnosis here.” I placed a hand on the brown folder. “And I’ve reviewed the treatment plan Dr. Kline has set up for you. You’ve been at New Horizon for five weeks, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

Enough time for a medicated patient with borderline schizophrenia to potentially be able to return home and live a relatively healthy and normal life with the assistance and constant monitoring of family members—if that were an option. In River’s case, it wasn’t. Not with three counts of murder hanging over his head. A confirmed diagnosis would see he remained in care for an indeterminate length of time. If I dismissed the diagnosis, he’d go to prison.

Schizophrenia was a spectrum disorder, and a patient could exhibit anywhere from mild to severe symptoms. River Jenkins, according to the section of Dr. Kline’s report that I’d allowed myself to view, sat low on the spectrum. She’d marked him as having reported instances of auditory, visual, and olfactory hallucinations, along with persecutory delusions. Symptoms she hadn’t witness firsthand. A small note had been made that he’d exhibited an inconsistent pattern of disorganized speech and a mild amount of strange and repetitive behavior that had dissipated to near nonexistence since starting his medication.

Smoke and mirrors.

I bit the inside of my cheek and reminded myself to evaluate without judgment.

“Why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourself, River, and we’ll go from there. I like to know my patients a little more personally before I start digging into the nitty-gritty of it all. Dr. Kline’s summaries are all well and good, but I prefer to make my own decisions about a patient’s care.”

River narrowed his eyes and wet his lips. A decent amount of scruff covered his jawline, more than a five o’clock shadow yet not quite a beard, and he scratched at it a moment before staring off over my shoulder again, his gaze flicking around like he was following something unseen. It lasted longer that time.

I made a mental note of the behavior, but I didn’t ask, which I thought annoyed him.

When he diverted his attention back, his lips were pressed together in a thin line. “What do you want to know?”

“Let’s start simple. The very basics. Age. Family. What do you do for a living? Stuff like that.”

I couldn’t help wondering how many more lies he’d told that weekend at his apartment.

“You mean what did I do for a living. I’m here now, and if I’m not here, I’ll be in prison. So, it’s fair to say I don’t do anything for a living anymore.”

River shoved away from the table and paced the room back and forth once before stopping at the window. He resumed the same posture from when I’d arrived a few minutes ago, except instead of crossing both arms, he hugged one around his middle and chewed the thumbnail of his opposite hand. He also angled his body in such a way we could still chat.

A hint of restlessness, perhaps? Or was it nervous energy at being confronted by the man he’d ghosted?

His intelligent eyes skittered every which way, scanning the yard. He tore at his thumb, spitting bits of nail and skin aside. After a minute, he bounced on the balls of his feet.

“Is everything all right, River? You seem agitated.” I liked to use a patient’s name often. It encouraged them to feel involved in their therapy and allowed them to know I wanted their engagement, wanted them to interact. In River’s case, it might have been an underhanded way of reminding him his secrets were exposed, and I had the upper hand.

“I’m twenty-eight. I’ll be twenty-nine in the fall. I was born on devil’s night.” He chuckled, and a hint of a smile curved the edge of his mouth, digging a groove in the rough scruff on his cheek. He glanced back, his warm honey eyes enveloping me for a brief moment before he stared out the window again. “Appropriate, huh?”

“Why do you say that?”

River’s demeanor changed. He squinted at a specific spot in the yard and pointed, tapping the windowpane. “Right there. That’s where I saw her yesterday.” He nodded and resumed gnawing his nail, muttering, “Maybe it’s true. Maybe it’s all fucking true.”

I waited, observing without prying for answers.

When I didn’t question him, River turned his back to the window and leaned against the sill. Another stitch between his brows. His gaze drifted over my shoulder once again, held for a few beats, then he found my face. More annoyance.

“It used to be a common belief that people with schizophrenia were possessed by the devil. I was born on devil’s night, and I’ve been given a diagnosis of schizophrenia. Hence my comment. Appropriate, right?”

He nodded as though satisfied with his statement, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. He turned again, perusing the yard, focusing more intently on that one spot he’d pointed out a minute ago.

“Well, lucky for you, you were born in a time where that’s no longer the belief. Instead of an exorcism, we can manage your symptoms with highly researched drugs.”

As if on cue, triggered by my mention of drugs, River yawned. He covered his mouth and shivered with the effect after an exaggerated length of time. “Sure, but they make me feel like shit. I might prefer the exorcism, Doc. Is it still an option? I’m tired all the time. And my mouth is dry.” He smacked his lips, emphasizing.

“Do you need some water?”

He waved me off.

So, not a true complaint?

“Unfortunately, River, the medication to treat psychosis isn’t without side effects. Often patients find the worst of it lessens with time.”

I paused and studied the man at the window. He wasn’t tired or lethargic. He was lucid and cunning. Again, it was in the eyes. They were too sharp. Too alert. River Jenkins was a smart man, if not a terrible actor, and I got the sense he was playing a dangerous game.

“How about you join me at the table again?”

He shook his head, the motion fast and jarring. Placing one hand on the windowpane, he leaned closer, squinting into the distance. A full minute passed before he shoved away.

“Dammit.” Then he paced among the small sitting area, picking up magazines and putting them down again. With an edition of Time in hand, he scowled. “No one reads this shit. Of all the fucking magazines. Plus, it’s four years outdated. Come on. Seriously? That’s the best they can do?” He tossed it on the table and continued to pace.

“How about you tell me about your family, River. Are you an only child? Do you have brothers or sisters?”

“I don’t have a family. My mother was a heroin-addicted prostitute, and I was taken away from her when I was born. I grew up in foster care.”

“I see. I’m sorry to hear that. And your father?”

River stopped pacing. Eyes that had once been pools of liquid honey were now crystallized and hard as glass. They hooked onto me with an astounding level of assessment and irritation. “Really, Doc? Let’s try this again. Are you paying attention?” He enunciated the following words. “My mother was a drug-addicted prostitute, therefore my father…” He rolled his hand, encouraging me to fill in the blank.

I ignored the blatant, smartass remark. “Have you had contact with your mother over the years?”

The first hint of unease stole River’s composure, but it was fleeting, there and gone in a flash. “I used to see her for supervised visits when I was little, but they stopped when I was fourteen or fifteen. She stopped coming one day. I’m not sure how much effort Child Services put into their search, but I was told they couldn’t locate her. A few years passed with no word, and with her history, she was presumed dead.” He shrugged. “Never saw her again.”

“A tragedy.”

River rolled his eyes and returned to the window. “Weird thing happened, though. I swear I saw her yesterday. Right there.” He tapped the glass, pointing toward the same spot as before. “We were outside for our morning yard time. I saw her in the distance by the tree line. There one minute then gone the next. It happened so fast I wasn’t sure it was real. I looked for her in the afternoon when we went out again, but she didn’t come back. Or, rather, I didn’t see her.”

I watched River closely.

“Is that the first time you’ve seen her since you were a teenager?”

“Yes.”

“How did that make you feel?”

He didn’t respond, so I tried a new tactic.

“Did she talk to you?”

River shook his head. “She was too far away.”

I left the table and joined River at the window, noting the distance from the fenced-in yard to the tree line where he claimed to have seen her. It was easily a hundred yards or more.

“What’s her name?”

“Camilla. Camilla Jenkins.”

“That’s pretty. How do you know it was your mother, River? It’s been well over a decade, and that’s quite a distance. Are you sure you weren’t mistaken?”

He didn’t answer right away, so I studied him from the corner of my eye. River pressed his lips together and frowned at the spot by the trees. His dark brows slashed at a sharp angle. He was intense and focused. Thinking. Processing.

I got the sense he wasn’t sure.

“It… it smelled like her. I know how that sounds. But it’s true. I’ll never forget the way she smelled. She wore this cheap, lilac perfume. Probably bought it at the gas station or something. When I was a kid, I used to tell her she smelled like purple.” River chuckled and shook his head like it was the most ridiculous thing. “I would sit on her knee while she read me stories during our visits, and I was surrounded by it.”

“So you smelled this woman at the tree line all the way from the yard, and that’s how you knew it was your mother?”

The smile brought on by the memories faded, and River frowned. When he spoke, his voice was low, almost a growl. “Yes. That’s what I’m saying. Are you calling me a liar?”

Funny enough, it was maybe the most honest thing that had left his lips.

“I’m not. Did anyone else see her?”

River shrugged and continued to scowl. “Probably not. It happened fast.”

Something about the incident bothered River. Confused him. His features were painted with skepticism and doubt.

Patients with schizophrenia were often confused. It was a common symptom. But they weren’t confused about the reality of their hallucinations. River recognized the flaw of having smelled his mother from such a distance. He understood it made no sense. That in itself lent skepticism to his diagnosis—if I was entertaining the notion of a diagnosis at all.

Patients with true schizophrenia didn’t question the validity of their hallucinations or their realistic qualities. Whatever they saw or heard or smelled was as real as everything else in their lives. They were indisputable facts.

“How did your mother look? How old was she? Was she similar in age to when you saw her last, or was she older? What was she wearing?”

I admonished myself for asking too many questions at once. If I couldn’t remain objective, I should walk out.

River didn’t show signs of being overwhelmed or irritated. He shrugged. “She… looked like my mother. Like she always did. Way too skinny. Blonde hair. She had on a white tank top with a red plaid shirt open over top. Blue jeans. She wore a ball cap with her ponytail pulled through the hole at the back.” He demonstrated with his hands. “You know how girls sometimes do?”

“I do.”

“She always wore her hair in a ponytail like that during visits.”

I stared at the spot he’d indicated and tried to envision it.

“How long was she there?”

“A minute or two. Less. Like I said, it happened fast. Someone had an issue in the yard. They started screaming. People go batshit in here sometimes. It’s freaky. Anyhow, I looked back to see who was screaming. I think his name is Hennessy or something. Anyhow, I watched while one of the nurses calmed him down. When I turned back, she was gone.”

I stored River’s experience and his choice of words away for closer inspection later. Giving him back his space, I returned to the table and sat.

River turned from the window and leaned back against the sill. His eyes were intense. More focused than a minute ago, his gaze skipped over every part of me, and I wondered what he was thinking. Was he back in his bedroom? Was he buried deep in my ass? Or was it the second time when I’d ridden him to climax? Maybe he was remembering the nonsexual stuff we’d shared. Lying together on the couch, chatting about nothing. The whole five minutes when he’d tried to teach me how to play Halo, then snatched the controller from my hands, laughing and calling me hopeless.

It hadn’t meant anything. I was a fool.

Whatever he was thinking, it was more than a quick appraisal, and it took everything in me not to squirm. River’s prolonged attention should have bothered me, but it didn’t. It was like a sweet caress, licking over my flesh, burning a hot path from my clavicle to my crotch—where he lingered an extra minute, wetting his lips, before gradually making his way back up again, gaze landing on my face.

He flashed a cocky smirk and dipped his chin, glancing at the folder I’d shoved aside. “So. Let’s be honest, Doc. Was Dr. Kline’s evaluation not good enough for the cops? Is that why you’re here?”

I cleared my throat and resisted the urge to tug at the tight knot of my tie. “Dr. Kline is a highly renowned psychiatrist. I don’t doubt her abilities nor do I doubt her assessment.”

“Blah, blah, blah. Why are you really here?”

Our gazes locked, and I wasn’t sure how to play my hand. The uninhibited way he approached the subject lent to my theory that River was not mentally ill—at least not in the schizophrenic sense. He could be a sociopathic killer. That was yet to be determined. This was an elaborate game. Something more sinister was happening, but I didn’t know what.

I found a patient, nice-guy smile, a professional smile that gave no hint of what his deliberate appraisal and pointed question had done to me.

“You’re far too suspicious. It’s not uncommon for a doctor’s caseload to get too heavy. Especially in a facility like this. Bringing in new doctors and shuffling things around is more normal than you think.” I patted the table across from me. “How about you take a seat. Tell me what happened and how you ended up here at New Horizon.”

River’s muscles grew taut, and his jaw firmed under the gentle amount of scruff he hadn’t shaved in a few days. Behind the deep pools of his eyes, in the one place where River’s true soul lay open and bare, I saw the first hint of mistrust and fear.

What was going through his head? What was he hiding?

Was he frustrated or angry because his story was falling apart? He hadn’t expected me any more than I’d expected him. Faking symptoms, feigning psychosis every hour of every day was exhausting. Maintaining it over a period of weeks would be damn near impossible. My presence would mean he was back at square one, trying to prove himself again. This time, he would have to do the song and dance with a doctor who knew something about him.

If this was a classic case of malingering—like I assumed—then River had taken advantage of the supposed respite a drug regimen would have offered—as seemed to be the case. That in itself could have cast doubt among the medical professionals involved, which was also why I would have held off prescribing anything. Were the drugs suppressing his symptoms, or was his strong will and determination weakening?

I intended to find out.

I’d been working closely with every level of schizophrenia imaginable for decades. No one was more educated on the matter than me. No matter how smart River Jenkins thought he might be on the subject, he knew before his ass hit the chair—the moment I’d walked in the room—that I had him made. He’d thought the evaluation part was over.

He was wrong. It had only just begun.

River got comfortable across from me. He glanced over my shoulder again, scrutinizing that space in midair. When I still refused to take the bait, ask him about it, or acknowledge his diverted attention, his warm, knowing eyes slipped down and met mine.

His cocky smirk returned, and he huffed a humorless laugh. “Figures,” he muttered under his breath. “Fine. What do you want to know, Doc?”

“All of it. When did this begin? Why are you here?” It was my turn to bait him. Without looking at his file, without having read a single thing about what had happened during his initial assessment, I asked, “When did you first start hearing voices?”

It was classic. Whether River was the real deal or not, the question would get him talking.

River cut his gaze to the folder. A deep frown etched grooves into his forehead. Was he trying to remember how he’d told it before, or was he recalling a true experience?

Time would tell.

“River?” I leaned over the table, lowering my voice. “Or should I call you Craig?”

His gaze snapped to mine.

“Whatever the fuck’s going on, you’d better make me believe it, or you’re on a one-way track to prison.”

His Adam’s apple rose and fell. “It started two months ago. In the middle of the night.”